Chasm
by hoh-hey
Summary: An equal. He considered her an equal. Emmeline Vance's final hours.


So this one is a long time coming. Reviews greatly appreciated, and it should be really obvious I don't own Harry Potter.

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5:09 PM _

The door is cold. Emmeline cracks it gently with one hand, wand held at the ready by instinct and habit, as she peers inside. She's not stupid. The flat is well-protected, but there can be no mistakes. _Constant vigilance,_ Moody says. She lives by this rule every day of her life. When she's satisfied that the flat is not compromised, she enters and bangs her grocery bag on the kitchen counter, wand at the ready.

_5:27 PM _

A fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth in the living room. It's not sparsely furnished, but the flat isn't overstuffed with things, either. A few mementos from her travels line the mantle. A picture lingers on a side table by her favorite chair. It's the picture of the Order; everyone got one. Emmeline sits in the chair, ear turned to the radio behind her, wand held loosely in her hand. She's half between knitting a new scarf and not-knitting, more focused on what the announcer is saying. A warm cup of tea steams beside the picture of the Order.

The rain patters on the window.

_6:18 PM _

Emmeline has discarded the scarf and she's sitting in her chair, brooding. No post has come today, from the Order or otherwise, and she's left alone with her thoughts. She knows it's a dangerous place to be; when she overanalyzes, she gets paranoid, and sloppy. Sloppiness can't be tolerated. Voldemort's moving around and trying to rise again; she must have constant vigilance.

The tea has grown cold, but she sips it automatically, watching the cheerfully crackling fire sputter and linger on, growing closer to death. Her light brown hair spills into her eyes, and she brushes it back hastily every so often. Setting the cup aside, she motions to the radio with her wand. The volume inches up slightly, covering the soft sounds of the rain on the nearby window. Her grip tightens on her wand. It's cold. Emmeline pulls her favorite afghan around her, listening to the rain and the radio.

_7:45 PM _

The rain has blossomed into a thunderstorm. It's a cold day. Rain lashes the window, and as a particularly loud crack of thunder comes, Emmeline tenses in her chair. Something is not right, she can feel it. Underneath the afghan, she shivers. She's trying not to think; just feel. But she can't help it. She's a thinker. She's always been the one who lets the others try to work out their anger and aggression and instincts; she thinks and analyzes and plans. It's not so bad. She enjoys chess, after all.

There's no one to play chess with but her own self and Emmeline decides to retire early tonight.

_11:04 PM _

Emmeline wakes with a start. Blindly, she fumbles for her wand. The apartment is still quiet, but something is not right. She can feel it--perhaps the air is thicker, or years of living on the run have honed her senses to warn her of danger ahead of time—but something's different. She looks from her pillow to the door, still magically sealed shut, and her fingers find her wand.

The door comes unglued with the sound of a squelch, and she's long since ducked under her bed and began firing counter-spells under the frame of the posts. Two bodies fall; someone trips over someone else and there comes a thud. Emmeline locks eyes with the Death Eater under the mask and jabs her wand right through the eyeholes. A juvenile trick, but a good one. The bed disintegrates into a howl of color as someone warps a spell onto it that shoves it aside. She's already got her wand up and pointed at her attacker—_attackers, she immediately corrects herself –_and her dragon-heartstring core releases a powerful counter curse that sends all of them to their knees. She can't count how many there are in the dark as she scrambles to her feet, but spells fling every which way, momentarily lighting up the remains of her bedroom. There are two by the door, not counting the two already down, someone's in the frame of the door, and perhaps one or more behind her. She can't try the same trick again; they're wise to that.

"Stop!" a voice cries out, muffled, but Emmeline ignores it. Her wand flashes blue-to-violet and an incredible hum issues forth from the end, driving one of the Death Eaters to his knees as the rest scramble to counter-curse or cover their ears.

"_She's not to be harmed!" _a voice shouts over the low rumble, and with a slash her spell dissipates. One Death Eater looks around blankly but she's already moved out of the bedroom and out into the hall. One by one she springs traps set in the walls; since they're already in the flat it doesn't matter. Hammers swing by, ropes swing out and reach for any exposed neck; Death Eaters fall. Out of the corner of her mind, Emmeline is startled to see how many of them came to get her, but she can't dwell on that. Her new focus is to keep moving; don't look back.

"She's got—traps--!"

She has to get out of the flat; once in the open, she can get to one of her safe houses or even Order HQ and let them know what happened. Her flight is interrupted by a deep groan from the fireplace, and then _he _is there.

For a second, Emmeline falters. She grips her wand with both hands—_keep it steady, she reminds herself—_and points it at his heart. Voldemort's heart. Well…at his chest. Emmeline's not even sure if he has a heart anymore. Blinking, she shakes aside such thoughts as the cacophony behind her stops in silent awe of the scene in the living room. Emmeline noted Bellatrix Lestrange's distinctive cackle behind her—_had she been the one who shouted earlier?_—and the almost purr she greets Voldemort with.

A long pregnant pause follows as Emmeline stares into his cat-like, blood-red eyes. He breathes hastily through his slotted nostrils, turned on their sides like real humans aren't, and inclines his head stately. Emmeline remembered that Voldemort had breeding; Riddle, one of the old, old families from the beginnings of England, practically. He wouldn't speak first. The dangerous twitch to his courtly smile proved that.

"I suppose I'd at least like to know why you're here," she comments thickly, struggling to keep her voice level.

Voldemort takes his cue and stately inclines his head. He sweeps his arms open wide like he's the host and she's the guest and she stiffens. His direct eye contact doesn't waver, however, and she's left to look again at his face and at Bellatrix cackling madly from the doorway to the kitchen.

"I'm here for you, Emmeline," Voldemort hisses. "You've got a sharp mind under there…I could use that to my advantage."

Emmeline snorts coldly but her wand doesn't jump in the air like she thought it would. "I'll never join you," she spits. She doesn't need to shout her spells anymore, but she does because for a moment she's angry at him for being here, for even trying to suggest that she could be turned. "_Expulso!" _

A jet of blue light lances out from her wand directly at Voldemort's chest, but he's long gone in a swirl of black smoke. Bellatrix howls in fury but a word from Voldemort forces her to stay back. Even Emmeline is surprised at the ferocity of her spell; as expected, the side of her flat explodes in a violent fury, raining bricks and pieces of furniture down around them. Almost instantaneously, though, the wall reformed itself as an automatic precautionary measure to keep the Muggles from noticing anything. Emmeline's already reacted by jumping forward and putting her back to the wall, facing Voldemort again. He sucks in a rattling breath and brandishes his own wand. With a flick, a jet of green light is already winging her way –_Avada Kedavra so soon?—_and Emmeline counters by conjuring a thin golden shield from nowhere. The Killing Curse hits the shield and is absorbed into it; with a deep bass thrum that rattles the very floorboard Emmeline ducks down instinctively. She whips her wand into the air again and repeats her earlier Earbleed Curse. Bellatrix screams in agony and falls to her knees; Emmeline counts that as a small victory but returns her full attention to Voldemort. He's angry now, very angry that Emmeline both deflected his Killing Curse and injured his most loyal follower. He responds with something that Emmeline doesn't even recognize but the objects in the room try to attack her at will, and she proceeds to destroy the contents of her room one-by-one. It doesn't really matter now. Even if she does survive she'll have to go into hiding again, and the years of hiding from the Death Eaters the first time around have bred into her consciousness to leave nothing behind that could be tracked.

Spells and curses fly around the room. Emmeline and Voldemort are locked in a parody of a dance, a macabre dance—he will lead and she will follow, and in the end, only one of the partners gets out alive. Emmeline's proud of herself that she actually manages to land a few hits on the dark wizard. Every hit that she gets, though, he's gotten one of his own. Both of them are slowing, growing tired of their contest. Finally, Voldemort lances a blow that Emmeline can't dodge, and she's blasted out of the living room, her body tumbling against the fridge like a thrown doll. Crying out, her wand is wrenched from her hand by Bellatrix, and with a whisper the dragon-core is burned to a crisp. Emmeline knows this is finally the end. Without her wand, her spells aren't nearly as effective, and rumor has it that Ollivander was taken, so she wouldn't be able to get a replacement.

Voldemort pads quietly into the kitchen, his dark robes swirling around him like smoke. He hisses like a cat or a snake as he surveys his prey. Bellatrix's wand digs sharply into Emmeline's neck.

"So…we come to the end, Vance," Voldemort purrs. He leans in close, and Emmeline can smell the putrid stink of his breath. "I offer you one last choice…join me, or die."

Emmeline looks up at him with nothing but a calm grace. "I won't," she bites off, struggling to free herself from Bellatrix's clutches. "I know that one day you will fall again, and I only wish I could be there to see it."

Voldemort stands, pacing back for a bit before whirling. "_Avada Kedavra!" _he shouts, and a jet of green lightning lances out from the end of his bone-white wand and strikes Emmeline right in the chest. Emmeline doesn't even cry out as the last breath leaves her body, and she slumps down in Bellatrix's grasp. Voldemort smirks as he catches a glance and stows his wand away inside of his billowing black robes. He catches sight of the time on the kitchen clock_—twelve AM—_and motions for his followers to make sure that the doors and windows are resealed.

There isn't so much as a whisper when they leave.


End file.
